


Bits and Bobs

by Laqualassiel



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Amnesia, Dreamscapes, Female Harry Potter, Ishbalan Character(s) | Ishvalan Character(s), Ishbalan | Ishvalan Trisha Elric, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-07-25 07:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16193219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laqualassiel/pseuds/Laqualassiel
Summary: Plot bunnies that won't leave me alone. Posted here until I get the time and muse to work on them.





	1. All That is Gold Does not Glitter (Hâriell and Aragorn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot bunnies that won't leave me alone. Posted here until I get the time and muse to work on them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings crossover. No pairings for this one since i've only got half a clue where this is going.

This is one of the best dreams Harry has ever had.

Everything is so  _pretty_. The trees and the waterfalls and the flowers… Aunt Petunia could only wish to have a garden half as pretty as this. And the house! Though, with how big it is Harry isn't sure it can be called a  _house_. But everything is so graceful, sweeping lines and curves and little leaves carved into everything that makes it seem like they brought the trees outside into the inside.

The place is completely empty, so Harry is free to explore. She does so eagerly, switching between awe at her surroundings and glee at being able to wander wherever she wants. There's no one to tell her off, no one to sneer at her presence and lock her in her cupboard-

" _Mae govannen, tithen pen._ "

Harry squeaks, spinning around so fast she stumbles against the wall. Hands reach out to steady her, large and strong and Harry flinches back as Uncle Vernon flashes before her eyes. Already unbalanced, Harry trips and falls, landing hard on her rear.

She ignores the dull ache, glancing up into grey eyes that do  _not_  belong to Uncle Vernon. No, it's a tall, dark haired teen and Harry stares. He's dressed like a character from the fantasy books she read while hiding in the school library, the only place Dudley avoids like the plague and safe from Harry Hunting. The boy is wearing a grey shirt under a dark red tunic, long enough that Harry can only make out dark boots, and a belt around his waist.

The boy says something. The words sound like music to her ears, and Harry cannot understand it at all. But it brings her attention back to the fact that he's  _there_ , and Harry's  _not supposed to be seen_. She scrambles to her feet, hunching in on herself. "I'm sorry! I didn't know you were here and I can leave! I didn't  _mean to_  -"

She's not looking at the boy, which is  _stupid stupid stupid_ , so she doesn't see the boy reach out. She feels his hand come down on her head though, and Harry flinches. But the boy simply rests his hand on her head. It's… comforting? "It is fine, little one." He says, and at the lack of anger in his voice Harry risks a look up at his face. "I am at fault for startling you. My apologies."

Now that they are closer, Harry realizes that the boy is tall.  _Really_ tall. She only comes up to his waist! But that gives her the perfect view of the object belted to the boy's waist.

"Is that a sword?" Harry blurts out, unable to help herself. She flushes, because  _duh_ , it's a sword. The shape is pretty obvious and the boy's dressed like a prince so  _of course_  he has a sword! She ducks her head, waiting for him to yell at her for asking stupid questions.

There are no sneering words though, but a quiet sound and takes Harry a second to realize that the boy is  _laughing_. It's not even mocking, but a soft, warm chuckle that has Harry staring at the boy even as he smiles at her and crouches so he's closer to her height. "It is," he says, and his voice is gentler than Harry has ever heard directed at her. "Do you want to see it?"

Her eyes widen. "Can I?" She asks, not daring to hope. The handle -  _the hilt_ , she remembers from her books - looks pretty, which means the sword has to be really nice and no one would ever let her near something so valuable. Not when everyone thinks Harry is a troublemaker and worry that she might steal or break it. It doesn't matter that Harry would never do such a thing. Dudley has, and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon always blame it on Harry.

But the boy unbuckles the weapon from his hip, sitting down in front of Harry so he can better hold it and Harry is reminded that this is a  _dream_. The Dursleys aren't here. They can't tell tales or drive away anyone who might be her friend.

The sword is plain. No gold decoration or gems embedded in the hilt like in the stories. Simple steel and plain black leather wrapped around the grip. Somehow, the simplicity makes it much more brilliant. Harry runs her fingers down the cold metal.

"Here." The boy says, slowly and gently taking her hand and guiding it until her fingers are wrapped around the hilt. Harry gapes as he helps her hold the sword, scooting behind her so he can easier reach around her, his hands secure around hers so she doesn't drop the long blade. It's a good thing, because the sword is heavier than Harry expects, and even with him helping it wobbles in her hands.

Harry manages to hold it for maybe half a minute before her arms tire, and she lets the boy help her lower it to the floor with a slight  _ting_  of metal on stone. He easily picks it up and sheathes it in a single smooth motion despite remaining seated and Harry wants to be able to do that someday.

Then he inclines his head, one hand on his chest, and Harry realizes that he's  _bowing_  to her. Sort of. "I am Estel, son of Gilraen and Ward of Lord Elrond." He says.

"I'm Harry Potter." Harry replies. She curtsies, though it's clumsy and she's wearing Dudley's old shorts and t-shirt instead of a gown. She tries to think of her parents' names. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never mentioned them, but Harry thinks she saw them written down on her school paperwork once… Ah! "Daughter of Lily and James Potter, Ward of Petunia and Vernon Dursley. Are you a prince?" He doesn't have a last name, and if he's being raised by a  _lord_ , he has to be noble according to her books.

Estel smiles. "I am not, Lady Hâriell. Lord Elrond was generous enough to take my mother and I in after the death of my father."

Oh. "Are you a knight then?" She asks. "And I'm not a Lady!" Aunt Petunia always rants about how Harry's dad was a good-for-nothing drunk and her mum a simpering idiot for marrying him.

"I have not yet earned such an honor." Estel tells her. "I have only seen sixteen summers, and am yet to be considered a full warrior." Harry blinked, face screwing up in concentration as she puzzles out his words. Estel talked weird.

"I'm six." She replies, proud and not bothering to hide it from her new friend. She's old enough to go to school, which means she's a big kid now! "I started school in September."

"You are to be a scholar then?" Estel asks, interested and Harry is giddy at the attention. "Or are you studying the noble art of healing?"

Harry hasn't thought about what she wants to be when she grows up. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon always say she'll grow up to be as useless as her parents. No one's ever offered another possibility and Harry finds herself itching to prove her aunt and uncle wrong. But she's stumped for an answer to Estel's question. Sure, being a doctor or whatever a scholar is - a historian? - would stick it to the Dursleys, especially because Harry knows Dudley will  _never_  manage anything like that with his stupidity. But Harry doesn't know for sure if that's what she wants to do. "I don't know." Harry admits with a pout. "We're learning our letters and numbers, and some history and geography and science. I like reading though." She's good at it too. The school librarian is the only adult at school that likes her, and she's always giving Harry new books to read since Harry finishes them so fast. Ms. Eyre even helps her when she stumbles across something she doesn't understand, and even taught Harry to look up words in the dictionary when she's too busy to help.

"Shall I show you the library then?" Estel asks, and Harry lights up. She hasn't found the library yet. Her expression must be answer enough, because Estel chuckles and rises to his feet, buckling his sword to his belt again. He holds out a hand, and Harry hesitates. He doesn't withdraw it though, so she grabs hold and stares in awe when Estel gives her hand a gentle squeeze. "This way, Lady Hâriell."

Unfortunately, halfway down the hall there is a sharp rapping sound and Harry has a moment of panic before she jerks herself awake in time to hear Aunt Petunia screeching at her to wake up.

Harry feels a swell of disappointment. It was a nice dream. Maybe if she's lucky she'll have it again?

* * *

Harry dreams of Estel a lot after that. Not every night, but often enough Harry almost thinks it might be real before she shakes that silly idea out of her head. Dreams aren't real. They  _are_  amazing though, and before Harry realizes it, she looks forward to retreating to her cupboard and sleeping.

He shows her the library during in Harry's second dream. Harry gasps at the ceiling high bookshelves and the beautiful leather-bound books. Estel helps her take one down so she can look at it better, and she traces the golden symbols on the front cover, eyes wide with wonder. She's never seen books so pretty before, and Estel is letting her touch one! Maybe he'll let her read… one?

Staring at the first page, at black ink on thick paper, Harry scrunches her face in confusion.

She can't read it.

Harry glances up at Estel, who guesses her confusion easily. "It is written in Sindarin." He explains, sitting beside her like he did last time. Estel doesn't seem concerned about his clothes - white shirt and a silver-grey tunic this time, with silver stitching around his collar that is prettier than anything Aunt Petunia will ever manage on her embroidery hoop - getting dirty. Then Harry feels stupid. She's dreaming, so neither of them will ever have dirty clothes. "Elven-tongue."

Eh?! There are actual elves? "Like Santa?" Harry didn't think Santa was real. Dudley does, but Harry figured out last year that it was just Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon buying more toys for Dudley.

But if Estel lives with  _elves_ , does that mean she's wrong and Santa is real? Does Estel know Santa?

Why does Estel look confused?

"I am not familiar with that name." He says, and Harry's mouth falls open in shock.  _He doesn't know who_ Santa  _is?_

Her unreadable book is forgotten as Harry rambles on about Santa and Christmas. Estel doesn't know about Christmas either, or New Years or Easter or Halloween. Harry is outraged - what kind of dream doesn't have  _Christmas?_

Estel is curious about the holidays at least, so Harry tells him all about them. At least, from what she's heard from Dudley and her classmates. She's not allowed to celebrate with Dursleys even if they don't lock her in her cupboard on those days and she gets to eat a bit more than usual.

Some of his questions Harry doesn't know the answer to. She doesn't know why they celebrate Halloween, or why Santa is part of Christmas. But now she's curious, so Harry will have to ask Ms. Eyre or see if she can find a book on it if Ms. Eyre is busy.

She looks back down at the book in her hands, trying to squash the disappointment she feels at not being able to read it. It isn't like the book actually has anything in it. Harry remembers Ms. Eyre telling her that dreams are a mix of memories and imagination, and Harry doesn't think she can create a whole book from her imagination. Still, it would be cool to be able to read the fancy letters even if they are nonsense.

Estel hums and leans forward. "This book is about the first elves who came to Middle Earth. I can teach you to read it, if you want."

"Really?" Harry asks. Estel nods and Harry grins so wide that her face hurts. This would be brilliant!

It's harder than Harry thinks it will be. The symbols look a lot like each other, and in Harry's wobbly handwriting they blur together in a mess of lines and curves and dots. Speaking Sindarin is no easier. The words flow in a different way than Harry is used to, and her tongue always seems too clumsy to pronounce the syllables.

Estel always says how proud he is though, so maybe Harry is doing better than she thinks?

Despite how hard it is, Harry is having fun. Ms. Eyre even lets Harry practice during recess, giving her sheets of blank paper and crayons to use. She feels guilty at the waste - it all ends in the rubbish bin by the time Harry has to go back to class. Harry feels a bit better when Ms. Eyre makes her promise to write something for her after Harry can write legle- ligeb-  _legibly_.

It takes almost the rest of term, but a week before school lets out for winter holidays Harry carefully uses a blue colored pencil to write down one of the songs Estel taught her. Two spelling mistakes and one time where Harry forgets an entire sentence later, she proudly presents it to Ms. Eyre. The librarian pins it to the corkboard behind her computer and Harry  _beams_. That night she manages to do the same for Estel on her third try and floats with happiness for days. Even Aunt Petunia winging a frying pan at her doesn't ruin her mood.

It doesn't last.

Estel finds her outside the library. She's sitting against the wall, legs pulled up to her chest and hiding her face in her arms. She hears his boots on the stone floor, sees him pause for a moment in the corner of her vision before there's a rustle and green cloth touches the floor next to her.

" _Man prestach, Hâriell?_ " Harry loves that about her friend - Estel cares enough to ask why she is upset. He  _listens_  to her too, no matter how much she rambles. She's getting better at it, as she realizes Estel is always willing to listen Harry realizes she doesn't have to tell him everything at once. She can space it out, because he'll still be there when she wants to talk again.

" _In istrim mennaner siniath vín ist_." Her pronunciation is as patch work as her sentence, but she doesn't want to speak English right now.

Though she thinks she may have to. Estel is silent for a moment, trying to piece together her mangled vocabulary. " _Trenerithach nín_?"

Everything comes spilling out, Harry raising her head so her already terrible Sindarin isn't made worse. Harry doesn't know how much Estel understands, but she thinks it's most of it. Estel is smart. She tells him about the report her school sends home at the end of term so parents can see their children's marks. Harry remembers being so  _happy_  with her marks - not perfect, but still high. It was  _proof_  she isn't useless, and surely her aunt and uncle would realize that too? They'd be pleased, Harry thought. Perhaps they'd be proud?

But… they weren't. Aunt Petunia turned a sickly white and Uncle Vernon's face was so red Harry thought he would explode. Uncle Vernon yelled at her for cheating, for stealing Dudley's marks. Dudley, who  _barely_  scraped together high enough marks to pass. Harry was so shocked she didn't react in time to dodge Uncle Vernon's hand as he grabbed her by her hair and locked her in her cupboard.

Term ended for winter holidays, so Harry doesn't have to be at school for two weeks. Harry wonders if she'll be allowed outside her cupboard long enough to bathe.

Estel reaches for Harry, slow enough Harry can move away if she wants. She tenses, but this is  _Estel_. He's never hurt her. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her up into his lap. It's when his arms gently tighten around her that Harry realizes Estel is hugging her.

Harry  _bawls_ , burying her face into Estel's tunic and sobbing.

She doesn't understand. Why do Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon  _hate_  her? Harry doesn't know what she's doing wrong and it  _hurts_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin translations:  
> Mae govannen, tithen pen - Well met, little one  
> Man prestach, Hâriell? - What troubles you, Hâriell?  
> In istrim mennaner siniath vín ist - Lit. "The teachers sent news of our knowledge" (Harry trying to say the teachers sent school reports home)  
> Trenerithach nín? - Will you tell me?


	2. House of the Stranger (Lyalla Baratheon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot bunnies that won't leave me alone. Posted here until I get the time and muse to work on them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so y'all know, my knowledge of Game of Thrones is limited to fanfic and the wikis. So be gentle with me? Also no pairing for this, since I've got no clue where I'm going with this. Also written at three in the morning so this is is definitely up for changes in the future if I get around to writing this.

Robert Baratheon strode through the halls, heedless of the water dripping from his sodden clothing. Grand Maester Pycelle had sent a raven to the hunting party announcing the queen had gone into labor that morning, and Robert immediately turned to race back to the Red Keep despite the fierce storm that caught him halfway.

He had no love for the Lannister chosen to be his wife. But he'd needed her father's armies in the wake of the war to ensure the damned Martells and Tyrells didn't get any  _ideas_. Robert would never love any woman than Lyanna. She should have been his wife, his beloved queen. Not the blonde haired, poison eyed harpy.

But he was a father now. The Grand Maester had been waiting for him as he entered, to congratulate him on the birth of a healthy babe, a healthy daughter.

Nervous excitement quickened Robert's footsteps until he nearly jogged down the halls towards the nursery. Cersei wasn't there anymore, returned to her chambers to rest and recover and leaving the newborn in the care of the wet nurse.

No skin off his nose. Robert didn't want to deal with Cersei at this late hour.

Ser Barristan nodded to him, standing guard by the door to the nursery. The old knight had fought for the Targaryens, but the man was the best sword the Kingsguard had. Robert could overlook the man's previous loyalties so long as he protected Robert's child just as fiercely.

Normally Robert would throw the door open, announce his presence to all within. Now, he stepped as quietly as he could. He didn't want to startle the babe.

The wet nurse woke despite his care, rising from the bed in the center of the room. The bassinet sat closer to the roaring fireplace, nearer to the window shuttered against the storm still roaring beyond.

Robert waved the woman off. He wanted a moment alone. The woman slipped through the still open door, and Robert padded over to the bassinet.

The babe was  _tiny_. Small enough to fit in one of his hands. He leaned down, picking her up as gentle as possible. His daughter didn't stir from her slumber, and Robert tucked her into the crook of his arm as his mother Cassana once showed him after Renly's birth. His little girl already had a head of dark hair, the locks baby-soft under his calloused fingers. It would fall out in the coming weeks Robert knew, leaving her bald until her actual could come back in.

Would it come back as dark as his? Or would it be lighter, closer to Cersei's? Perhaps it was selfish, but Robert hoped his daughter would look like him.

His daughter. He was a  _father_.

Robert never thought he could love anyone as much as he loved the little bundle in his arms. Fear struck Robert, wondering if the babe would survive the coming months. Would she live long enough to call him father? Would he see her grow and learn and become a wife and mother?

Robert quashed those thoughts, shoving them to the back of his mind until he could work through them in the sparring court. She was  _his_  daughter. A Baratheon, a daughter of the storm. She  _would_  survive.

"You'll be a fierce one," Robert murmured. He smiled, a silly little thing. "Your grandmother always said I'd have children as hard headed as I was. Wild as the Stormlands themselves." Gods knew his mother was never wrong. His little one needed a name, a strong one like his little girl would no doubt be.

There was only one he could think of.

"Lyalla. Lyalla Baratheon, first of her name."

* * *

"Princess Lyalla Baratheon!"

At her Septa's shriek, Lyalla bolted down the hallway. She didn't think the Septa would be coming to her rooms so soon!

Full grown, the Septa would normally be able to outrun Lyalla any day. But the Septa was wearing a long habit with full skirts, and thought running full tilt was terribly improper. Lyalla on the other hand had managed to dress herself in a pair of breeches and a simple shirt and tunic and had no problem at all sprinting through the Red Keep.

Likely the reason for the scandal in her Septa's expression. Boy's clothes were not proper for a princess to wear after all. Especially because Lyalla made these herself, the hems messy and crooked from a four year old's clumsy work.

Lyalla was proud of her work. She made them without any help at all, and the hems were sturdy! They wouldn't come apart unless someone deliberately tore them! Sure the clothes weren't fitted, but none of the Keep's seamstresses would make her anything but dresses! Desperate situations called for desperate measures and this was something Lyalla could take into her own hands!

It was seven hours into the morning, which meant her father would be talking with Lord Arryn in the Tower of the Hand. She didn't have lessons until nine, so Lyalla didn't know why the Septa had such a burr up her skirts.

Now, how to get there without Ser Barristan or Uncle Jaime intercepting her?

Oh! Lyalla grinned and veered left at the next available hallway. The Red Keep had just as many secret staircases as Hogwarts. Lyalla had maybe been a not so good little girl and snuck around at night finding all of them.

Lyalla didn't like most of the memories stuck in her head. Harry Potter's life hadn't been a happy one. No parents, and an aunt and uncle that hated her for something she couldn't control. And when Harry finally found friends, she'd died to save them. Which, okay, Lyalla could understand. Harry  _loved_  her friends, almost as much as Lyalla loved her father and her little brother Joffrey, no matter how much of a  _brat_  he was.

If dying meant she could protect them, Lyalla would in a heartbeat.

She didn't just have Harry's memories though. No, Lyalla had  _magic_. Which was cool, it  _was_ , but… it was also lonely. She couldn't tell anyone. Not when everyone believed magic was heresy and the Faith killed people for having it.

Lyalla didn't believe that it was heresy. If Harry's life the main religion had killed people with magic too, because the church thought it was a sign of the Devil. They'd been  _wrong_ , which meant that the Faith could be wrong too. Lyalla had to make sure none of them saw her magic, because she kind of wanted to make it more than Harry's seven and ten years.

More than that though… the Targaryens were said to have had magic. It's how they controlled their dragons, and when the dragons died so did magic. But Father  _hated_  the Targaryens. The Mad King killed Uncle Ned's brother and father, because Prince Rhaegar had kidnapped Father's betrothed Lyanna and wouldn't let her go.

Father loved Lyanna. He looked like Lyalla remembered Harry's parents did, when they looked at each other. Looked like Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Bill and Fleur and Remus and Tonks.

Lyalla missed them. They weren't hers, but they were Harry's and Lyalla remembered the deep friendship and sometimes the longing in her chest hurt so bad Lyalla thought she would cry. She wanted friendships like that. People who would walk through fire for her, who she could trust unconditionally.

She didn't want her father to hate her.

The door to the Tower of the Hand was  _heavy_. Lyalla grit her teeth and pulled, until the door opened the scant inches she needed to wiggle through. Then she dashed up the stairs on hands and feet, because she was  _four_  and there was nobody around to judge.

Gold armor at the top of the stairs, and Lyalla kept low, trying to control her gasps into something quieter. Gods there were a lot of stairs!

"Up to mischief?" A voice drawled, and Lyalla looked up into green eyes bright with amusement.

"Uncle Jaime!" She grinned, holding her arms out. Uncle Jaime laughed, sweeping her into her arms and settling her on his hip despite the heavy armor. "I wanted to see Father, but the Septa came earlier than I thought."

"She won't be here to box my ear will she?" Uncle Jaime asked, arching a brow. Lyalla was envious.  _She_  couldn't do that. "Give me bandits any day."

Lyalla giggled. "She's not  _that_  scary."

Jaime gave her a solemn look. "Then you are much braver than I, Princess." Lyalla giggled some more and Jaime cracked a grin at her. He turned and knocked on the door to the Hand's rooms.

"Enter!" Lyalla perked up. That was her father's voice!

Jaime opened the door with a flourish. "A visitor, Your Majesty."

The two men in the room looked at Lyalla, and the dark haired man brightened. "Spitfire!" Jaime set her down and Lyalla dashed to her father, shrieking with laughter as he lifted her high and around before tucking her against his chest. He grinned down at her with bright blue eyes. "What has you up at this ridiculous hour?"

"I don't have lessons until nine, and I wanted to learn to fight like you." Lyalla said. She knew her father - so long as Lyalla wanted to be like him, her father would let her do almost  _anything_. "The Septa and Maester say I'm doing well in my normal lessons, and I'm wearing breeches and tunic instead of a dress, so please, please,  _please_?"

She looked up at him with a pleading expression, even widening her eyes for added impact. Lyalla studiously ignored the muffled snickers from Uncle Jaime and the sigh from Lord Arryn.

Her father grinned. "Of course, Spitfire! Jon and I can finish up later when you're at your lessons."

Lord Arryn looked reluctantly amused. "Of course, Robert."

Lyalla brightened and wrapped her arms around her father's neck. She pressed a clumsy kiss to his cheek. "I love you, Father."

Her father melted, hugging her tight and rubbing his beard against her cheek. Lyalla shrieked with laughter as it scratched against her skin. "I love you too, Spitfire."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please let me know what you think!


	3. Nothing so Kingly as Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FMA OC fic. Older sister of the Elrics, Ishvalan!Trisha AU.

_"Ed! Al!"_

_"Sister!" "Adel!"_

_White. "Who are you?"_

_A wide, inhuman grin; joyous laughter in a mockery of her voice. "I'm called many things. The World, the Universe, God. I am Truth. I am_ you."

* * *

 _What a mess._  Roy rubbed a hand over his face. He was going to thump more than a few heads when he got back to East City. Thirty and thirty-one his  _ass._

That wasn't even getting into the disaster in the Elrics' basement.

Roy could give Intelligence that much credit. The boys were geniuses. Barely into double digits and they'd managed to get closer to a successful Human Transmutation than anyone ever recorded. With a mere  _year_ of formal training.

The price for it…

A missing arm and leg for Edward. A missing  _body_  for Alphonse, bound to a suit of armor by the quick thinking and sheer determination of his elder brother not to lose another family member. Adelheid on the other hand… Roy rubbed his face tiredly and glanced at the unconscious teen laid out on a medical cot in the corner of the room, Edward and Alphonse next to her in silent vigil. Adelheid tried to stop her brothers, tried to pull them away only to get pulled in herself. No one knew what the transmutation cost her. Not when she had yet to wake.

It was going to be awkward when she did.

Silver-white hair, dark skin, and - from the pictures on the Rockbells' mantle - bright crimson eyes. Trisha Elric was Ishvalan, a heritage passed down to her eldest child in full. Alphonse's skin was darker, more sun-kissed than Edward's fair complexion, but both boys took after their father with their golden hair and eyes.

On top of that, because that wasn't enough, while the boys were never part of the Ishvalan Civil War - having never left Rosembool until after the Civil War ended - Adelheid  _had_. Was one of the medical personnel in the hospital run by Yuri and Sarah Rockbell until their deaths. It was highly likely Adelheid would recognize the name of the State Alchemist responsible for massacring untold thousands of her people.

'Hero of Ishval' indeed. Good grief this couldn't get any worse.

So of course it did. Because the universe loved to spite him.

* * *

An hour later, staring down a crimson gaze somehow harrowed and empty at the same time, Roy dearly wanted to swear. But he could feel Hawkeye boring a hole into the side of his head with her eyes alone, so he bit back the first words that came to mind. And the second. And third.

Amnesia. Everything from the past seventeen years, _gone_. 

(Roy should not feel so relieved that she wouldn't recognize him.)

"Miss Elric," He stated instead, "I am Lt. Colonel Roy Mustang of the Amestrian Military and an alchemist. You and your brothers were involved in an accident. The transmutation your brothers attempted failed, and you were caught in the backlash when you tried to protect them."

Alphonse cringed, armor squeaking with the full body movement. Edward's gaze remained affixed to the floorboards.

Silver brows furrowed. "I don't… I can't  _remember_." She looked so lost, and Roy felt a pang of sympathy. Adelheid was about the age the recruits in Ishval had been. They'd looked as lost then, wondering why they were fighting, why they were slaughtering women and children in their own home.

"What do you remember?"

"Alchemical discharge." She said, and Roy blinked. That… was the technical term for the arcs of energy given off during an alchemical transmutation. Roy hadn't heard it since he trained under Mr. Hawkeye. "A lot of white, a lot of black." Adelheid grimaced, bringing her hand up to rub her eyes. "And a headache."

Roy hummed. Now this was interesting. Intelligence hadn't included a file on Adelheid, nor much about her in her brothers'. It was possible they didn't think Adelheid was an alchemist of any note. Roy thought it more likely the higher ups didn't want to give the position of State Alchemist to someone so obviously an Ishvalan.

Racism at it's finest.

Roy didn't give a damn. Talent was talent. "What do you know about alchemy?"

"Do you have chalk?"

He didn't. The Rockbells did though - Winry scampered off and came back with a piece for Adelheid to use. Adelheid hopped off the bed, pat the hovering Alphonse on the chest in reassurance, and began drawing on the wooden floorboards. Pinako grumbled halfheartedly, the complaints more out of habit than true irritation.

Roy spared a fraction of his attention to the other occupants in the room, keeping the majority of his focus on the circle forming under Adelheid's hands. He held the record as Amestris' youngest State Alchemist, shattering the previous record held for the written portion of the Exam. But he could only recognize a handful of elements of the transmutation circle before him now. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen and Roy couldn't begin to guess at its purpose.

Adelheid sat back, examining her work with a critical eye. Alphonse's helmet tilted to the side as he looked over Adelheid's shoulder. Curiosity all but radiated from him. "I haven't seen this one before, Sister."

"I'm hoping that's a good thing." Adelheid replied absently. With a decisive nod, she set the chalk aside and waved Alphonse back a step. "It's a medical circle."

Medical? Roy perked up. Medical alchemy was  _rare_. The only one Roy ever heard of was Dr. Tim Marcoh, who disappeared after the Ishvalan War. "What does it do?"

"A demonstration will work better." Before anyone could react to that, Adelheid grasped her forefinger in an automail hand and snapped it in one smooth motion.

Winry and Alphonse flinched at the sound of cracking bone. Roy would never admit it, but seeing someone so calmly break their own bone - especially in the  _hand_ , alchemists  _needed_  their hands, was she  _insane_  - without reacting disturbed him. "Adel!" Winry cried, almost rushing over were it not for Pinako's hand stopping her.

"I'm fine." Adelheid stated. She poked at her finger and grimaced. "Set this for me? Doing this one handed is tricky."

Pinako let out a stream of smoke, huffing with disapproval. Nonetheless, she stepped around the chalk circle and felt along the broken digit. "You didn't have to break a finger, silly brat."

Adelheid hissed as Pinako nudged broken bone back into place. "I  _could_  have broken my arm or leg, I suppose. I did make the circle for those kinds of injuries. Or demonstrated the circle for healing up lacerations and sliced myself up." She paused for a moment as Pinako grunted. "Or I could have used the good soldiers here as test dummies, because  _that would go over so well."_

This time Pinako snorted, even as Roy and Hawkeye eyed the teen with a heavy dose of wariness. "I'm sure they appreciate your restraint."

"Indeed."

Pinako prodded at Adelheid's finger for a moment longer. She stepped back. Adelheid set her hand, finger already turning a wonderful purple color, on the transmutation circle. Alchemical discharge leapt from the chalk, casting a blue glow through the room before fading away to show Adelheid's hand. Roy stared at the unblemished flesh, Pinako inspecting the proffered limb for any lingering break. Adelheid made no indication of discomfort, and Pinako released the hand with a satisfied nod.

She could fix broken bones. And cuts, from what she implied. "What else can you do?"

Roy wouldn't ask how. Alchemist's were cagey about their work at best, downright paranoid at worst. Roy wasn't willing to explain how his alchemy worked, so it wouldn't be fair to ask after Adelheid's.

"I can fix most injuries." Adelheid said, running her healed finger along the ridges of her automail. "Stimulate cell division to mend broken flesh and bone, increase blood production and stop blood loss by keeping blood where it's supposed to be. The brain and nerves are trickier, but not necessarily impossible. Disease on the other hand? That's hard."

"How so?"

Adelheid blinked up at her youngest brother. "Well, disease is caused by bacteria or viruses, which are foreign to the body. The body's immune system recognizes them and sends special cells after them to fight them off. But if the body doesn't recognize them, then there are problems. But alchemy can't find and deconstruct the bacteria and viruses - they're too small. Best I can do is increase the immune system's defenses, but that's no guarantee." She shrugged helplessly. "In this case, medicine is better than alchemy."

"Oh."

 _We just wanted to see Mom again_. They'd lost their mother to disease, Roy realized. Adelheid probably spent years researching the limits of medical alchemy. Sometimes there wasn't a solution.

"What do you know about Human Transmutation?" How much of that was from the boys, and how much were they covering for their elder sister? An aspiring  _doctor_. With extensive knowledge of the human body and how alchemy could affect it.

Alphonse flinched.

Crimson eyes narrowed, and Roy withheld his rising glee at the razor sharp intelligence in that considering the gaze. Roy would bet his next promotion on Adelheid being at least as brilliant as her brothers. "In theory, it is possible to construct a human body from its basic elements." Adelheid said slowly. "However, that does not account for the genetic makeup or soul of the subject in question. With out those, any Transmutation would be doomed to fail."

Winry looked curious despite herself. "What do you mean?" She glanced at Edward and Alphonse, but neither boy made a sound.

"Lt. Colonel Mustang and I are made of the exact same elements, if in different quantities." Adelheid explained. Her voice took on a lilt as she settled into a lecture, and Roy had the moment's thought that Adelheid would make a good teacher. "However, we look different due to our DNA. Otherwise, the transmutation wouldn't know  _who_  to construct - at least in terms of appearance. Everyone's DNA is unique. You can't substitute it." That was a brilliant point Roy hadn't considered before. Neither had Alphonse, if the way he froze was any indication. That could be bad. Roy didn't want the boys clinging onto hope and trying again.

Adelheid continued, seemingly heedless of her brother and Roy's reactions. "But even if you manage that, all you'll end up with is a corpse, because there is no soul. Which, I would argue, is  _more_  important than the DNA. You can have a living soul without a body. You can't have a living body without a soul." She elbowed Alphonse. "He's proof enough."

"Wait, you know?" Alphonse yelped.

The silver haired girl frowned. "Lt. Colonel mentioned an alchemical accident. A Rebound, in other words. From the pictures, you aren't much bigger than Edward, but that armor is hollow. Yet you move easily, and seem to have your personality and memories intact. So somehow your soul was bound to that suit of armor." She eyed Alphonse with an expression Roy had seen from too many doctors. "We'll have to do a full test to see what the limits of your body are, but that is no one's business but yours unless you choose to share. And your legal guardian, since I don't think I count."

"Not yet." Pinako confirmed.

Adelheid nodded, before turning her attention back to Roy. "So why  _are_  you here, and how much trouble are we in?"

Roy  _had_  to recruit her and Edward. He could gloat for  _years_  for finding this kind of talent. Alphonse would be the icing on the cake, but the last thing they needed was the military finding out about his… condition and carting him off to the labs for experimentation. No ten year old boy deserved that.

"We came to recruit Edward and Alphonse." Roy stated. Adelheid's eyes darkened, and he quickly added, "We thought they were twenty years older, Miss Elric. We didn't intend to recruit children."

"But you want to anyway." Adelheid countered, glower unabated.

Roy nodded, stamping down the guilt in his chest. He had a lot of practice doing so. "Alphonse would never pass the physical portion of the Exam without discovery, which is a fate better avoided. But yourself and Edward? Yes, I would like you to become State Alchemists."

"We aren't soldiers."

"You don't have to be." Roy said. "Edward is too young, and only a portion of State Alchemists are also soldiers. But State Alchemists are given funds to conduct research, and have access to the National Libraries - both considerable assets. It is possible Edward could find a way to restore his and Alphonse's bodies, and your memories. To forge a path forward instead of wallowing in despair."

Slight movement from behind Adelheid and Alphonse, and Roy saw gold eyes burning. His sister however, remained unmoved. How to get her... "You could enroll in medical courses to earn your medical license."

Crimson gleamed, and Roy knew he had her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please comment


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